


The Worst Bit

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, sam plays matchmaker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 14:55:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is, apparently, the only one capable of realising how totally in love these two are, and finally decides to do something about it after Castiel 'saves' Dean's life (yet again).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Worst Bit

Castiel collapsed against the wall for the fourth time that night, nails dragging along the bricks in an attempt to keep himself upright. Dean kept his focus on the fight, but he was still worried about the weakening angel. What the hell was going on with that guy tonight? Castiel looked up; their gazes locked. And then Dean’s left ribs were rammed into by the spirit’s palm and he was sent soaring against the bricks. His back hit them first, then his head whipped back and slammed against a sharp bit of brick. And he was out.

-

“Dean.”

“Come on, Dean.”

“Your brother is waiting, Dean.”

A different voice cut in. “I know you’re awake. If you don’t open your eyes right now, there will be no pie in the Impala for a week.”

Dean groaned, peeling his eyes open. Motel room. Two twin beds. No sofa. Small wooden desk chair, marked with scratches, about three shades darker than the desk. Smaller than usual, but doable, of course. Sam was standing over him, and Cas was still sitting next to him on the bed. Close. Nope, he still didn’t (choose) to comprehend personal space. Dean suspected he never really would.

“So what happened?” he asked.

Sam snorted. “After you blacked out? Cas, as far as I gathered, saw the spirit toss you – like a ragdoll, I might add – and you not getting up, so he threw a bit more than a fit. Isn’t that right, Castiel?”

Cas pursed his lips, looking out the window (at a dead, untrimmed bush that had been left to grow over the glass) and not saying anything.

Dean shoved himself into a sitting position and twisted his legs over the side of the bed. His head hurt. He was used to it. “Yo, Sammy, get me some Advil or seomthing, will you? I left it in the glove compartment. Somewhere to the left of the gun, I think.”

Sam gave him a quick, brow-raised once-over, then exited the room to do as asked.

Silence stretched out before them like a vine, wrapping around the men’s lips and rendering them unable to speak – at least, that’s what it seemed like. Dean leaned back and rested a hand on Cas’ shoulder. “Did you really do that?”

Castiel cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I thought you’d been direly wounded.”

“I was just unconscious.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“When did you figure it out?”

“When your brother went to check on you.”

Dean’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I thought you could tell that sort of stuff. Angel mojo and all that.”

Dark hair brushed his strong jawline as Cas browed his head. He seemed almost embarrassed, but no, that couldn’t be. Oh, but his cheeks… was he blushing? “I ‘used it up’ when I, ah, when I assumed the worst of your injury.”

“Well, how long ‘till it comes back?”

“A few days. No teleporting, no banishing demons back to hell. You’re familiar with the extent of my power.”

Sam entered again and Dean pulled his hand back from Cas, catching the plastic bottle as it was tossed to him. He swallowed two pills and placed the rest on the table. A bit of cleaning up for Sam plus a few questions later, and they’d figured out that Cas would stay with the brothers for the next few nights and help out on hunts. Problem was, the motels they selected weren’t exactly high-class, and therefore usually didn’t come with a couch or the three-bed option. Worst cas scenario, there weren’t any extra pillows or blankets (and _no way_ would they risk asking for more) in the tiny closet they almost never used. So the time came where they had to decide who got the beds and who got the floor.

Leaning against the narrow counter, Sam began in a tone that made his cocky internal smirk fairly clear. “Well.” That smirk played at his lips. “I’m the youngest, so I automatically get a bed. And I’m the largest. Oh, and you’re the ones with the more profound bond.”

Dean jerked up quickly, suddenly wanting to be, or, not to be on the same mattress as the angel. “Oh no,” he snapped. “I am _not_ sleeping with Cas.”

Sam’s smirk broke free.

Dean flushed, scowled at the stupid dirty carpet.

Cas pretended he was still ignorant to sexual innuendo.

A few awkward moments of quiet later, Dean cleared his throat. “Besides,” he grumbled, “Cas is the one who doesn’t have powers. Must be feeling pretty out of it. He needs it more than I do.”

“I beg to differ,” the angel protested. “You were knocked unconscious. Your head…”

They continued to spit out reasons why the other should get the bed while they get the floor. Sam cracked open a beer, sipping at it and enjoying himself immensely. They were so _completely_ in love and so _completely_ oblivious. After weeks and weeks of sex-via-eye-contact and lingering touches, Sam finally got the chance to do something about their I-don’t-know-what-love-is relationship. To anyone else, their argument was based on the fact neither of them wanted to share a bed. To Sam, the reason was clear. It wasn’t that cuddling was off their schedule, crossed off in Sharpie, marked ‘NEVER HAPPENING.’ Oh no, it was so much better. Cuddling, in fact, was on both of their agendas as ‘yet to be accomplished,’ maybe with a doodled heart around initials. This argument was more about ‘I care about you more than you care about me’ rather than ‘I’m so totally not doing something as gay as sharing a bed’ (because they SO wanted to. Both of them). At one point, he actually heard Dean say, “You deserve it because I mean, honestly, have you even slept since you fell from goddamn Heaven?”

Finally, both muttered, both every now and again stating even more reasons why only one should get the bed, they ended up agreeing to share it. Apparently, Dean had said something like “You always seem so cold,” to which Cas had gotten a lusty look (in Sam’s imagination, at least) and said “Perhaps that can be fixed.”

-

Later that night, when the three had each given synchronized yawns, they all decided to retreat into the comfort of sleep. Sam watched Dean slide into bed, watched Cas awkwardly place himself beside him, and politely turned away while the pair got situated. It seemed like it took a while; he heard them murmur every now and again.

But then he heard the pop of button snapping, and _oh hell to the no_ was he going to be in here for that. So Sam slowly got to his feet and slid out the door, saying, “I’ll be back in the morning.”

Dean and Cas didn’t reply, but as the door closed, Sam heard a moan.

-

And then it was dawn and Sam strolled back into the motel room, a satisfying novel in hand and a bag of pie and fruit in the other. Dean and Cas lay sprawled atop each other, tangled in the sheets that – oh, Jesus Christ, were they wet? – stuck to their skin. Sam almost tricked himself into thinking it was because of sweat, though that wasn’t much better. The younger man cleared his throat and the pair groaned harmoniously, shifting their way so they could each toss their legs over the bed while Sam pulled the food from the bag and waited for them to dress. Or finish. Or whatever they were doing behind his back.

Throughout breakfast Sam was witness (more like victim) to lip-biting, lustful stare (not imaginary this time), and even hinting within casual conversation. That wasn’t the worst bit, though.

No, the worst bit was when they were about to leave and Dean grabbed Cas’ trenchcoat from the side of the bed and handed it to him and gave him _that look._ The look that, when Cas had given it to Dean, the hunter had said, “Cas, the last time someone looked at me like that, I got laid.”

Sam walked out quickly to load the duffle bags in the car, wondering if hooking them up _that way_ was the best thing – or, the smartest thing – he could have done. 

**Author's Note:**

> That bit with the 'no way they'd risk asking for more' was about the fact that some motels, if you ask for an extra pillow, it's code for a prostitute. Now you know.


End file.
